The State of His Marriage
by grannysknitting
Summary: Pre-slash. Sherlock contemplates the person he's married to.


**The State of his Marriage (Sherlock BBC Fanfic)**

Set before 'A relationship with Sherlock Holmes', after 'Back in the Saddle'. Definite pre-slash.

AN – someone asked me to put a timeline in my profile for this series… I would if I wrote to a timeline. These one shots pounce on me when they pounce and are written in one sitting. Basically I write until they're finished, which can be inconvenient when I should be doing more mundane things, like housework etc… They're out of order because as I write, more ideas crop up connected to past stories, or stories for the future! Sorry! As someone smarter than I once said: _**'Life is random and so am I'**_

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On the whole, Sherlock was very pleased with his new spouse. John was resilient, patient, intelligent and capable. In his own chosen field, Sherlock had yet to find another to beat him: and he'd met the physicians that attended to the Queen of England. In comparison to them, his spouse was medicine what Stradivarius was to violins.

John could take the simplest of tools and bend them to his practice of medicine, could command a whole street with no more than a stern look and a calm voice and save lives with all the tireless energy and grace of the most elegant machine that Sherlock had ever witnessed.

Take now, for example. The case they were currently involved in – by mistake, Sherlock had to admit, he should never have agreed to look into Dimmock's little problem – had cumulated in a very public and messy battle between the police and the gang of drug runners that were attempting to take over part of the East End. It didn't help that several of the East End's more… traditional… crime families took exception to that and mixed in with the final, well showdown wouldn't be an inaccurate description. There had been copious gunfire and several small explosions, leaving the street where the drug runners had been quartered looking more like something from the Middle East than the shabby-genteel Victorian terraced houses that had lined the once quiet street.

The police had been handicapped by their desire to protect the public and themselves – from the lawsuits that were likely to arise from all of this as much as anything: Sherlock could only be simultaneously pleased that Lestrade had not been involved, thus saving his career from nasty and long lasting repercussions, and disappointed that he hadn't been involved as there was a good chance this very situation that Sherlock was now watching would never have occurred.

There were several bodies laying in the street and more injured inside one of the houses that was even now leaking smoke from its upper windows. Emergency services were naturally on their way, as were reinforcements, but they would all arrive too late for three of the casualties in the road if Sherlock's limited medical knowledge was any judge.

He leaned against the car that John had pushed him behind, pushing him to the ground and covering him with his own body, one hand firmly pushing Sherlock's head down as the other fired his handgun, the weapon barking sharply in response to the threats aimed their way. The feeling of the smaller body covering his, taut with intent as John protected him first and those around him second, had been intriguing… and terrifying. Every shot from someone else's weapon had brought with it the fear that the bullet had found its way to John. His spouse had survived being shot twice now – more than twice if you counted actual bullets instead of incidents – and Sherlock never wanted there to be a third occasion. Usually, John's gun was more of a deterrent for the wayward impulses of the criminals that they cornered than a tool that was fully employed. Today it barked as fiercely as any 'British bull pup', defending John and his allies with its 'bite'.

Once the gunfire was over, John had abandoned him after a quick body check. He'd tucked the gun, the barrel still heated, into Sherlock's pocket and leaped for the street, heading for the casualties. Sherlock had pulled himself to his feet, wincing as a grazed knee made itself known and leant on the car to watch his spouse at work.

John had marshalled a small number of trustworthy volunteers and was treating the injured. The three that had been spraying arterial blood into the air had been dragged within arms reach of each other and with all the steadiness of a battle-hardened surgeon, John had proceeded to snatch them back from the jaws of death, a steely look in his eyes. His movements were precise and economical as he worked over all three – barking orders to those he'd pressed into service. There are currently two young coppers with their hands deeper inside a living human being than they'd ever expected to be and neither of them is anything but calm and willing, which Sherlock suspects is more a function of John's implacable influence than their own personality traits.

Ambulances exploded onto the scene and the crews are directed to the strange tableau on the ground. Even as they approach John is raising his voice and barking orders and information at them, which prompts an abrupt about face from two of the six people running forward and the retrieval of certain kits.

He tends to his patient first, moving quickly and calmly, sealing an arterial tear as if he's idly putting a cork back into a bottle of wine, giving the paramedics a quick briefing as he does so and sending two of them to deal with the less urgent but still life threatening cases of smoke inhalation and broken bones. The patient John is tending makes a panicked snatch for him as he moves away to deal with the criminal to his left and John allows the hand to connect with the hem of his jacket even as he leans over his new patient.

Sherlock scowls – that's _his_ place for holding on to John. His spouse is not yet accustomed to the idea of public displays of affection and so Sherlock is subtle about holding onto him in public. Usually he's gotten hold of the hem of whatever John is wearing, sometimes he slips a hand into John's jacket pocket, now and then he slips an arm around John's shoulders as they walk or a hand to John's back. Although he realises that John's original patient probably has developed some sort of _dependency_ on John – the doctor literally held his life in his hands – that doesn't equate to touching rights in Sherlock's mind. John wouldn't like it if Sherlock stormed over there and pulled the mans hand away – it would be not good – so he settles for a good glare and impatient sniff under his breath.

The paramedics help him control his impulses – they disconnect the grasping man and load him onto a gurney as John deals with his second patient – there is a flurry of i.v.'s, oxygen and pulse monitors and then they're heading for the nearest ambulance, radios chattering as they do so. John takes longer over the criminal – apparently there is more damage than was first apparent, but soon enough he's on his way leaving the third victim, another policeman who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, to be dealt with.

This one is unconscious and John works over him with especial care, allowing his volunteer to slip away to make room for the professional. Sherlock can't see John's face anymore, but he can see the paramedic. The woman is working as well as anyone of her skill level and experience can be expected to work, but that is not anywhere near the level of Sherlock's spouse. Despite the fact that John has no credentials to show, nor official standing with the police, his air of authority and obvious capability has led her to defer to his orders without so much as a blink.

Sherlock knows that paramedics will usually ignore the advice given to them by the public, even the ones that identify themselves as doctors. This is because there is no time for the paramedics to establish a skills base for said doctors. Unless the doctor is the one that called the ambulance, standard procedure is for the paramedics to take over from anyone rendering first aid and then to some degree ignore any bystanders who are not in need of medical assistance themselves.

Finally, the last of the Three is loaded onto an ambulance – more have turned up to deal with the other casualties, along with the fire brigade and of course, more police – and it pulls away, siren screaming. Sherlock's spouse is left standing in the street, his clothes marred with blood as he uses a series of wipes to clean his hands and arms.

Sherlock thinks that he has never seen anything more alluring in his life than his spouse in the aftermath of having saved a life.

Now if only he could get the man interested in the bedroom, his happiness would be complete.

END

AN 2 – I couldn't resist the army slang from Victorian times! The original John Watson 'kept a bull pup' which was slang for a type of gun – and also slang for having a bit of a temper!

Disclaimer – characters and setting as depicted in Sherlock BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.


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